On the Steamy Side

by Louisa Edwards

  “Thanks for doing this, man. Miranda and I, we appreciate it so much! See, Frankie, what’d I tell you?”

  “Told me the man would be here. Didn’t venture to say much about whether he’d be staying. Hello there, Lolly.”

  The laconic Cockney voice drifted over from the kitchen doors where Frankie Boyd was leaning, fingers of one skinny hand rummaging in the pocket of his painted-on black jeans. Presumably for smokes. Frankie was famously addicted to silk-filtered Dunhill’s; he’d once told Devon he plunked down his hard-earned cash for the outrageously expensive British imports because he took his vices seriously.

  Devon sneered a little, more out of habit than real animosity. He and Frankie had butted heads when Frankie was one of his line cooks back at Appetite, but that was years ago. Frankie was Adam’s sous chef now, and by all accounts, an integral part of the kitchen.

  “Wait a second.” Devon turned to the woman at his side with an incredulous eyebrow lift. “Your name is ‘Lolly’? Like, short for lollipop?”

  She stiffened visibly, her thick, straight brows drawing down like thunder. “Lilah Jane Tunkle,” she said.

  “Do not call me Lolly. Ever.”

  Oookay.

  Devon cleared his throat and turned back to Adam. “Two weeks, that’s what we agreed on.”

  “Yup. You man the helm here for fourteen wonderful days while Miranda and I check out the farmhouse cooking in the German countryside.”

  A sound exploded from the woman next to him. That sound could most accurately be described as

  “Eep!”

  Lilah Jane Tunkle. Christ, what a name. Devon sent her a questioning look only to find that she was gazing back at him with a shell-shocked expression that suggested she was beginning to understand the scope of her faux pas.

  Devon was grimly pleased. That’s right, doll face, he wanted to say. You thought it was an anonymous screw with a guy you’d never have to see again? Not so much.

  They glared at each other for a moment, Lilah looking more appalled by the minute.

  “That was quick,” Frankie put in. “What did you do to take the piss out of our Miss Lolly within ten minutes of meeting her, then? Grant’s not going to be happy.”

  Devon gritted his teeth at the mention of the restaurant manager’s name. Shit, why was he so ticked?

  “Grant can kiss my ass,” Devon growled.

  “Grant,” Lilah replied, recovering her dignity, “who, I believe I’ve told you, Frankie, is the only person allowed to call me by that loathsome nickname, is my friend. He got me the job, bussing tables. I start tonight—”

  “What a coincidence,” Frankie cackled. “So does Dev, here.”

  Friend. Ha. Wonder if that’s how Grant sees it?

  Then the rest of her statement penetrated. “Wait,” Devon said. “Do you mean to tell me you’re fouling up this kitchen with your disgusting jumped-up dog food and you’re not a chef or a line cook? Not even a fucking dishwasher?”

  Lilah pinched her lips together in a disapproving way. “No, I’m not a chef, Mr. Potty Mouth,” she said with flagrant disregard for Devon’s authority. “But I had permission to use the stove.”

  Devon, who had strong feelings about civilians, superlative kissers or not, infiltrating professional kitchens, was about to respond forcefully when he caught the impatience rolling off of Adam in waves. The guy was all but dancing in place, like a kid in line for the bathroom. He was clearly ready to get his show on the road.

  Evidently Lilah recognized the signs as well. “I think I’ll just take my ‘dog food,’ ” she enunciated with offended gravity, “and find Grant. I’m supposed to get him to start showing me the ropes.”

  “Good idea,” Adam said heartily. “He’s still down in my office, probably moaning over the sad state of the menus. Miranda always writes the descriptions of each week’s dishes, but she’s been too busy researching her book and packing our bags to take a look at them.”

  “Right,” Lilah nodded. “And thank you again, Adam, for the opportunity. I promise, I won’t let you down.” Carefully folding the corners of the oil-soaked paper towels over the still-steaming chicken livers, Lilah scooped up the nasty bundle and said, “Well, I’ll just leave y’all to your little conversation.”

  Devon watched her go, torn between annoyance and relief. He didn’t like the feeling of uncertainty about Grant’s prior claim on her, even if Lilah clearly thought of herself as free. Devon controlled his breathing carefully. He detested this type of drama.

  Although why he should be so worked up, he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t like it was ever going to be more than a onetime thing with Lilah.

  Right?

  Lilah seethed with a mixture of sparking nerves, jumpy stomach, and righteous indignation. Along with a healthy dose of dread.

  Holy cats, what a mess. Everything was all catawampus. Lilah closed her eyes in distress.

  She could just about picture Aunt Bertie laying down the law while deftly rolling out a piecrust. “Lolly,”

  she’d say, up to her elbows in flour, “Lolly-girl, you’ve gotten yourself in a real pickle this time.”

  The I-told-you-so would be heavily implied.

  Well, there was no use having a conniption over it now. What was done was done. Last night, Lilah had the wildest sex of her admittedly somewhat staid life—and this morning, it turned out that her perfect, mysterious, anonymous lover turned out to be her new boss.

  Peachy.

  And not only that, but he was a jerk! The things he’d said about her food made Lilah’s fists clench even now, minutes later. And she wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.

  Oh, mercy, what if he told everyone about last night? Her cheeks burned at the thought of it. Or what if he wanted a repeat performance, and threatened to fire her if she didn’t comply?

  Lilah paused. She couldn’t quite believe he was so bad, but then, what did she really know? Yankees were capable of anything, as her Uncle Roy liked to say.

  And everything had been going so well up until now! Lilah loved New York, from Grant’s tiny, cramped studio to the crowded 1 train she rode to get from his place in Chelsea to the restaurant on the Upper West Side, to the amazing liberation of following her heart (and her body) and having (supposedly) anonymous sex last night.

  Getting dumped by her boyfriend just might be one of the best things that ever happened to her. It had prompted her to move to New York, which was a good choice, she remembered thinking this morning as the subway swayed around a curve and a businessman jostled her arm, spilling coffee on her hand. New York was exactly what she needed. Everything was going to work out perfectly. Lilah Jane Tunkle’s life had finally begun! She was a sophisticated woman now, hip with the times and comfortable with her own sexuality!

  And then Devon Sparks had to go and ruin it all by turning up at Market and being a big horse’s ass. And by looking unconscionably attractive while doing it.

  Lilah sighed, loud and gusty, as she clattered down the kitchen stairs toward the narrow hallway that led to the prep kitchen, storage pantries, staff locker room, and the chef’s office. She went over the layout of the restaurant once again in her head, determined not to get lost.

  Of course, it still took her several false starts and one detour into a dark, dank room where curing meats wrapped in linen hung from the rafters before she found the office.

  Where her oldest friend in the world, Grant Holloway, was sitting at an ancient green metal desk, banging his head with a hollow sound of despair.

  “Why me, God?” he moaned. “Have I displeased You in some way? Mercy, please, I beg you.”

  Lilah rolled her eyes. “Drama queen! Up and at ’em. Tell Lolly what’s the problem.”

  Grant raised moist cornflower blue eyes to hers, his mussed blond hair making him look like a cherub recently awakened from his afternoon nap on a passing cloud.

  “Lolly! Where on earth have you been?” He rushed to her and threw his arms around her, cracking her ribs w
ith the force of his hug. “I couldn’t find you anywhere last night, and then I had to hear it from Chris … from the bartender, that you’d left with Devon Sparks! I didn’t believe him at first, but when you weren’t anywhere in the bar and you didn’t come home …”

  Lilah drank in the familiar cool-water smell of her best friend.

  “The bartender had it right,” she said, affecting as much airy unconcern as she could.

  “No,” Grant said, pulling back and searching her face as if for signs of demon possession.

  “Oh, yes.” Lilah waggled her brows to make her point clear. “I got me some sugar last night.”

  He went a little green. “Sweet fancy Moses on buttered toast. You had sex with Devon Sparks.”

  “Why so dismayed?” Lilah wanted to know. “You’ve been after me to find someone new since I turned up on your doorstep with a suitcase and a broken heart.”

  “Your heart wasn’t broken, just a little bruised. And I wanted you to find someone wonderful.” Grant scowled.

  Lilah started to feel a little protective of Devon, all of a sudden. It was okay for her to find him annoying and arrogant, but for some reason, she didn’t like hearing Grant badmouth him.

  “Are we talking about the same person?” she asked. “Tall, dark, and hot like burning?”

  “That’s him,” Grant agreed, lip poking out like a petulant child. He’d always been so damn cute, Lilah thought fondly. He’d grown up all controlled and organized, but when he looked like this, she could still see the little neighbor boy who’d tromped down the lane separating their families’ farms, all skinned knees and sun freckles, to ask her aunt could Lolly come out to play.

  “Lilah, I hate to be the one to break it to you,” Grant continued, “but Devon Sparks is an asshat.”

  “Grant!” Lilah was scandalized. “Language. And anyway, don’t worry. It was strictly a onetime deal; I’m sure he’s as eager to forget all about it as I am.”

  Grant gave her a look that clearly stated he knew what she was full of, and it wasn’t rainbows or sunshine, but he didn’t contradict her.

  Full of gratitude for the reprieve, Lilah said, “So what were you moaning about when I first came in?”

  Reminding him of his earlier grievance proved the perfect distraction. “The menus aren’t done!” Grant cried. “Adam’s leaving for two whole weeks and taking Miranda with him, and the menus will never be done right again!”

  Lilah held out a hand. “Give me the menus, let me see what I can do.”

  Clutching them to his chest, Grant gave her a suspicious look. “You’ve never worked in a restaurant in your life. There’s nothing fancier than a fried chicken shack in Spotswood County. How will you know what to write?”

  “I taught Hamlet to teenagers, Grant. I think I can handle one stupid menu. Gimme. And eat some of these fried chicken livers before they get cold.”

  Grant exchanged the menu for the paper towel full of tender, crunchy morsels with a happy sigh.

  “Oh, Lolly. Your aunt’s recipe? I have died and gone to heaven.”

  Lilah preened a little. Here was a man who knew what was good. Stupid Devon Sparks. What did he know about anything? Nothing, that’s what.

  The menu was printed in pretty script on a legal-sized piece of what looked like recycled paper. The heaviness of the paper felt good in her hand, and she liked the nubby texture of it.

  Grabbing a red pencil off the corner of the desk, Lilah perched on the sagging couch set against the back wall and started marking it up.

  “Your boss? Might need remedial kindergarten,” she commented, changing apetiser to appetizer with raised eyebrows.

  “He’s gotten lazy,” Grant slurred, mouth full. “Ever since Miranda came along he’s been unloading this job on her. He had to do it himself today and he rushed it, because he wanted to have it done before Devon got here. To take over our restaurant and turn all our lives into a living hell.”

  “Gracious.” Lilah was taken aback by Grant’s vehemence. “Is it really that bad?”

  “Bad doesn’t begin to describe it! We’re about to be under the thumb of one of the most famously dictatorial chefs in the industry! I used to work for him, back when he opened his first restaurant, Appetite, and I tried to quit about once a month before I finally managed to make it stick. It’s not going to be good, Lolls. You might want to rethink this whole brand-new beginning you’re trying on for size. Let me find you a job bussing tables someplace else.”

  “No! I want to be at Market. I like it here, all the folks I’ve met have been so kind and welcoming. And you said yourself, no other good restaurant is going to hire someone like me, with no experience at all, and pay a decent wage. I’m willing to impose myself on my oldest, dearest childhood chum like that, but my aunt didn’t raise me to be a charity case.”

  Not entirely true—Lilah had felt like a charity case most of her life, living with her aunt and uncle. They hadn’t tried to make her aware of her status in their household, never reminded her that she wasn’t theirs, but she’d felt different from her cousins, all the same.

  With Grant, though, Lilah knew herself to be on solid ground. Grant had always just liked her; no duty, obligation, or charity about it.

  He smiled at her now. “I’ve loved having you in Manhattan with me. Even if my apartment’s not really set up for two people.”

  “It’s cozy,” Lilah said. “Think how nice it’ll be when winter comes.” She was looking forward to the snow. Virginia didn’t see a lot of it.

  “Sure, except now it’s summer and we’re baking like two little cinnamon buns in a pan. Seriously, Lols, are you glad you came? I know it’s only been a few days, but it was a big change for you.”

  “It was time and past. I needed to experience life outside of the county.”

  Grant’s mouth twisted. “You never did fit in with those white-gloves-and-pearls Virginia debutantes, did you?”

  “No more than you. It was destiny that we became friends.”

  “Right, destiny. Or the fact that our family’s farms butted up on the same crick.”

  Lilah laughed, because Grant wanted her to. He didn’t like to think about his past as a misfit, she’d noticed. When he’d moved to New York right out of high school, Aunt Bertie had shaken her head and made dour predictions about the fate of a country mouse in the big city, but Grant had never looked back. Lilah knew for a fact that she was the only person he still kept in touch with from their high school class—not that many of those bubble-brained jocks and twittering debs had the sense to know what they were missing out on.

  They didn’t like Grant because he was different in some way they sensed, but couldn’t define.

  And they didn’t like Lilah because she wore clothes that used to belong to her older (male) cousins and refused to follow their lead when it came to Grant. Or, well, anything.

  “Have I thanked you for taking me in and letting me stay with you?” Lilah asked.

  “At least twice a day since you moved up here,” Grant said. “And from now on, there’s a moratorium on calling your new life ‘an imposition.’ I love having you here. Even if my apartment is tiny enough that even with you over on the pull-out couch, I woke up when you got the hiccups that first night.”

  “Missed me last night, didn’t you? Admit it.” Lilah crossed the last T with a flourish and stood to hand the finished product over the desk.

  “Gladly,” he told her, taking the menus and casting his eyes over them quickly. “Actually, I missed you more this morning when I had to get my own breakfast for the first time since you arrived. You turned into a damn fine cook while I wasn’t looking. And Jesus, Adam really can’t spell for shit, can he?”

  “Your vocabulary has gone down the toilet.” Lilah laughed, a tiny bit shocked. Her sweet little friend was all grown up.

  “Yeah, sorry.” Was he blushing? Cutie. “But you’d better get used to it, I’m afraid. My potty mouth is nothing compared to the sewage most of those cook
s upstairs spew during an average dinner service.”

  “I can’t wait. You gonna share those livers, or what?”

  They shared a companionable moment munching happily on the crispy, salty treats with their surprisingly rich, velvety centers. There was a hint of cayenne in the batter, which fired the roof of her mouth and made her throat tingle pleasantly.

  She couldn’t believe she’d allowed that condescending man upstairs to knock her off balance.

  “So.” Lilah swallowed, unsure of what she was even feeling. She knew it was better to sweep it under the rug and let it stay there, but she wasn’t quite able to let it go. “Devon Sparks. He’s some kind of big shot, huh?”

  Grant paused, eyes wide and intent on her face. “You really don’t know? Lolly, he’s a huge deal. He’s got his own show on the Cooking Channel, restaurants from Miami to Las Vegas. Christ, I think Target sells his own special line of spatulas or something.”

  Lilah blinked. Well. She already knew Devon was rich, but she hadn’t realized he was a celebrity. Although it made a certain amount of sense, now that she thought about it—his air of superiority when he talked about food, his chauffeur, his gorgeous apartment.

  It was interesting, though, that he hadn’t clued her in on his fame. Lilah remembered how squirrely he got when the subject of names came up, and looking back, she could see he was the one who’d pushed for anonymity. She hadn’t noticed at the time, since it suited her perfectly, but now that she thought on it, she felt it must mean something. Surely a man as arrogant as Grant was making out would’ve been trumpeting his status up and down the bar, expecting groupies to fal all over him.

  Instead, he’d coaxed and seduced nervous, clueless Lilah into his bed without mentioning one thing about being famous.

  The incongruity of it poked and prodded at her. If her life were a play, this would be highly significant character information about the new leading man. But it’s not a play, she reminded herself. Even if Devon Sparks is more than a perfect face and a towering ego, so what? It was one night of meaningless, albeit enjoyable, sex. And now it’s over.